Feeling Whole
The first step towards acceptance of a diagnosis is to go inward. It isn’t about mustering a thought or feeling that isn’t there, strangle holding an “it’s going to be okay” mantra. Acceptance is a willingness to feel everything, to feel the messy whole.
In 2009, I had been working non-stop teaching both a full time job and teaching a few classes at a local community college, caring for Harrison, dating, and with whatever time was left, writing creatively or taking an occasional yoga class. The longer I delayed my own care, the less capable I felt in all of the other areas of my life. Every week seemed to flow like this: a note from Harrison’s school about a new maladaptive behavior to manage, a rejected insurance claim, another guy who ghosted me after being so fervent, a bronchial infection, and an email from work that my dean had been replaced. Each week a different flavor of this same cumulative struggle. While at this point, I had stopped trying to fix or change Harrison, I did sit with bouts of bottomless worry that all parents of neurodiverse kids who require lifelong assistance face.
Back then, I wasn’t a meditator and had only brief positive experiences with meditation in my regular yoga classes. But when a friend who had just returned from a 10-day silent Vipassana meditation retreat in the Bay Area was describing how changed he felt, I thought to myself. Ten days alone, all of the shelter and food handled and for free—I need this. While I read the application material carefully, I recognized that less than half of my interest was spiritual, most was practical. I needed a break, a reset. So, I casually asked my mom if it were possible for her to watch Harrison while I attended the retreat during the Christmas holiday. I was thrilled when she seemed interested. She connected with my sister, my brother-in-law and my great nephew. And they made a holiday out of it, using my place in Half Moon Bay as home base. December 20-25, Harrison would be with his dad Ed, but the 26th through the 31st, my family would watch Harrison at my house. With three adults and my nephew Joseph, we figured they could manage.
At the meditation retreat, which was hosted at a Catholic Campground in Occidental, CA, there were ten or so cabins with eight people per cabin that were spread out over a wooded area, with lots of redwood trees and rain. The staff were calm and kind, but had knowing looks, as they anticipated what was about to happen. After the initial evening orientation and meal, the rules were strictly enforced. There was no communication or really even eye contact for ten days. All phones or devices had to be left in your car in the parking lot at a distance from the campsite. No music, drawing, writing or other practices like jogging or yoga, and especially no speaking or gesturing. If there was an emergency or you needed something practical, then you could discreetly speak to a staff member. Otherwise it was 10 hours a day of meditation with one, 1 hour teaching each evening. Up at 4:30am and in bed by 9pm. During the first days, I was equally agitated and intrigued, my legs falling asleep often and my mind making up whole narratives based on people’s shoes and the back of the head of the person in front of me where I sat ten hours each day.
Those retro KangaROO tri color shoes with tiny zippers gave off hipster, guitar playing, dad’s a workaholic and ignored me vibes. The red Hunter rain boots were crying out my husband doesn’t understand my spiritual path and I’m building up the courage to leave. I named the woman in front of me Julie and got to know the swirls of her graying cowlick and wispy hairs around her neck intimately. The first two days, I simply replaced my life’s mental work with invented work.
Between days three and four is when the real magic (aka inner work) began. I started to drop inward more easily, finding moments of relief from my thoughts, but there was still a slow catalog of stories, worries, and shame cycles. It was also nearing Christmas, and I had skipped out on it altogether to be here--no presents, nothing, so guilt was a constant melody in my mind.
On day five, in line for dinner, I started to notice a visceral change. Someone put a tiny candy cane ribbon on the threshold of the door to the hall. Since I wasn’t using my auditory or vocal senses much, my visual focus became hypersensitive. This slight symbol of the holiday brought on a wave of melancholy. I wept in silence over my salad and tea, missing Harrison and all the Christmas accoutrements. Yet, after my meal, the sadness passed, floating away. The next morning at breakfast, as I approached the front of the line, I noticed one sliced almond in the giant plastic cereal bin. The idea of eating that sliced almond captivated me. Not enough to dig into the bin for it when it was my turn, but my desire for it was palpable. When I poured the almond milk, and another single almond slice rose to the top, I felt a pounding joy.
During meditation, I seemed to replay every scene from my life and a worst case scenario stockpile, while trying to focus as instructed on various areas in my body. At one point during a morning meditation, a telephone answering machine clicked on (the staff had forgotten to silence it) in an adjacent office. I heard a woman’s voice: “Hello, this is…” before someone turned the volume off. I immediately sat with a picture of my mom calling because Harrison had drowned in the ocean. I waited for the tap on my shoulder that never came. This was a wake up call that my body and mind were wired for disaster and needed more time to unplug.
On day seven, I hit a rhythm, felt lighter, and was able to stay present while sitting. Time started to collapse a bit. I slowly grew a visceral awareness of my body from the inside out, accepting all of my parts. I was able to experience Harrison for who he is, not who I had wished he would be. So many consecutive days without having to talk or take care of anyone was a gift. My mind and body felt like they had detoxed, and on the last day, I dreaded speaking or hearing voices. I didn’t want to know the real lives of the KangaROOS or the Hunter boots. I didn’t want to see Julie’s smile. My greatest take away was that I had the ability to create peace inside myself. I had trained myself to be aware during my normal moments like driving or waiting in line. I no longer needed to check out or numb. Also, I learned to make space between a trigger or uncomfortable thought, and my response to it. I could actually see the thought in my mind’s eye and have time to ask myself, “Is that a positive or helpful thought or should I just let it go on its way?”
I charged up my phone on the drive home down the coast. The loads of messages that downloaded after 10 days away were paralyzing. So I just took in the view. Colors seemed brighter, but I couldn’t listen to the radio that I turned on out of habit when I started up the car. My body and brain were tender.
Three hours later when I arrived home, I was curious how the visit went. Harrison was jumping and jabbering in a happy way. I could tell by their energy that it was a tricky, tiring but important visit. My mom, who doesn’t drink regularly, had happily found my old bottle of vodka in the freezer, which made me laugh. My brother-in-law took Harrison and his cousin Joseph boogie boarding in the cold, and bike riding along the coastal trail. He said they did the 7 mile loop more than once, and Harrison was ready for more. Everyone was spent but survived, and I gained a new relationship with myself and my family.
I’m not suggesting a 10-day silent meditation for all parents, but I can say for certain that the Vipassana experience ignited my relationship with myself and helped me process Harrison’s diagnosis. Furthermore, it created a dream to lead my own retreats someday. I had been on many writing and yoga retreats in the past, but this one offered something deeper, and it lit a path forward to eventually leading my own. Parenting is such huge physical, mental, financial, and emotional labor, that we need times to fully unplug, go inward, and maybe feel a little more whole. Retreats are appealing because parents, especially ones of neurodiverse kids, won’t invest in a vacation for themselves. They are in survival mode, and the idea of spending money and time to drink margaritas and scroll on instagram feels hollow. Parents want to feel good about their time away and return with a better sense of equanimity in their lives.
Parenting and Women’s Retreats
I have four upcoming retreats that I’m co-hosting: two retreats that are parenting focused and two for women. All of them focus on nervous system care and nurturing, using trauma-informed breathwork, Gateless writing, and other somatic practices. For more information here are the links, locations, days, and times below. Send me a note if you have any questions. 💜💜💜
Parenting
Nervous System Care: Mini-Retreat for Parents
May 4, 2024, 12-4pm Sausalito, CA
Tranquilo: a Costa Rican Retreat for Parents of Neurodiverse Children
July 22-26, 2024
Women
Spring Renewal Day Retreat for Women in Mill Valley, CA
Saturday, May 18th 10am-4pm
Women’s Wellness Retreat: Glamping in Mendocino
May 31-June 2, 2024